Rendition
by silentsister
Summary: Jackson Rippner is determined to have his revenge on the one that got away. Things fall apart. [LisaxJackson]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I am a poor college student – don't own any of the characters here and I'm not making any money off of this. Woe.

**A/N: **I totally do not need a new fandom to obssess over right now, but I can't resist the pull of the Lisa/Jackson interaction. Fair warning: plot is not my strong point, I'm better at character vignettes, so I'm working out some things as I go along. It'll get shippy as it goes along, though it starts of slow in that department. It'll be worth it, I promise.

* * *

After her fifth drink of the night, Lisa Reisert was drunk.

She hadn't planned on going quite this far. No, her plan had made perfect sense in the daylight – she would go out to one of Miami's larger clubs and try out a few new drinks. With any luck, she'd find something that would make her forget every Sea- or Baybreeze she'd ever had. Especially that one in Texas.

But one drink led to another, and now here she was, lightheaded, every cell in her body pulsating along to the bass beat and flashing lights and gyrating bodies. It was hot and hazy, and she wanted some fresh air, but when she craned her neck to find the closest exit, the room started to spin. She slumped forward against the bar to cradle her head in her hands and gave a small moan.

Lisa allowed herself a few minutes to gather up the last few shreds of her motor control before she grabbed her purse and slid off the bar stool. Her first few steps were unsteady, but her brain finally got into contact with her legs and levelled things out. Weaving her way through the crush of people was no easy task.

It could have been five minutes or five hours between the bar and the door; Lisa couldn't tell. What mattered was the welcome glow of the exit sign and the rush of cool evening air that followed. Lisa paused to steady herself against the wall of the club – the sidewalk had started to tilt dangerously, and she didn't trust her own body to stay upright.

_"I'm not normally such a lightweight," she said with an embarrassed smile as she took her seat by the window. He just smiled and finished stowing her luggage above their seats._

"No," Lisa whispered, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory. She'd thought these vivid flashbacks were over. Those ice blue eyes still haunted her dreams – and would, for a long time, she thought – but these waking glimpses of the past unhinged her every time. The best she could do was wait for the upswell of terror to fade and push through the rest.

So she shoved off from the wall, flagged down a cab, and was back at her apartment building thirty minutes later.

In her alcohol-induced haze, Lisa failed to notice the black Mercury Sable that had been following them pull up and park behind the cab, so it didn't seem at all strange to her to see it still parked there the next morning when she left to run errands.

* * *

He'd watched her for a week before making his move. It gave him time to learn her new routine – interesting that she had changed it so radically, interesting and very informative, but utterly futile – as well as compose himself for the job. The white-hot rage that had burned so furiously in the early days of his recuperation at the hospital, stoked by his numerous injuries, had faded into cool calculation. He still wanted revenge, of course, but he was determined to have it at his leisure, and that meant control was of the utmost importance.

So he watched Lisa come and go, smirking at the little quirks he had come to know so well already, and wondering at the new ones. At first glance, it seemed as if she had moved on surprisingly quickly, but Jackson suspected that she was overcompensating. He made it a point to pay closer attention to her, to her character, since it had been his downfall in their previous encounter. Facts and figures were useless now – he needed to know exactly what made her tick so he could use it against her later.

Jackson knew that threatening her father again, or even her mother, would be useless, not to mention repetitive, and that just wasn't his style. It hadn't been that effective in the first place, anyway; Lisa had hemmed and hawed despite her father's immediate peril. He had another, better reason for leaving the rest of the Reisert family out of his plot, however – this time, his business with Lisa was personal.

Jackson saw his chance when Lisa left the apartment around noon on Saturday. He waited fifteen minutes to make sure she wasn't coming back anytime soon, then casually exited the car and made his way up to her apartment. Lockpicking was one of his specialties, and he made short work of the lock on Lisa's door; with a satisfying click, it gave way. Jackson allowed himself a brief smile.

He was inside, then, inside her apartment, her personal space, for the first time. Jackson locked the door behind him; there was no use in telegraphing his presence too soon. He knew the layout by heart – hallway entry, kitchen off to the left, living room straight ahead, and the bedroom off to the right of that. Jackson paused at the sofa table just inside the door. It was adorned with a host of framed pictures and little trinkets, along with a lamp and a fake plant. "Still too busy to take care of a real plant," he murmured to himself as he picked up the most prominent photo on the table – it showed a smiling Lisa standing between her parents, her arms thrown over their shoulders. Her resemblance to her mother was strong. Jackson felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Lisa was so lovely, so happy there with her parents - it was something he'd never experienced.

He slammed the picture back down, and the others shivered in response, but refused to topple. Biting back a snarl – even these inanimate objects seemed to defy him – he forced himself to remain calm, objective, and returned to the pleasure of inspecting Lisa's apartment. Walking through the kitchen, tracing fingertips along the formica countertop, straightening the pillows on the sofa in the living room – these little acts of control and ownership soothed him and he settled into the overstuffed chair in the corner of the living room to wait for Lisa. With any luck, she wouldn't return until nightfall.

She would never even see him coming.

* * *

Lisa struggled to climb the stairs to her third-floor apartment without dropping the drycleaning, or the groceries, or the bag of take-out she'd picked up for dinner. It was stupid, she knew, to try to get everything at once, but she liked to minimize the number of trips she had to make up and down the stairs. To make matters worse, her cell phone began to ring insistently from the depths of her new purse – probably Dad again, or maybe Cynthia. The two had grown closer since the catastrophe at the hotel, and Lisa was grateful for the younger woman's friendship.

"Hold on, hold on," she told the phone as she hurried the last few steps to her door. Carefully setting everything down in one big pile, Lisa fished around until she found the phone and her keys and withdrew them simultaneously. "Hello?" She cradled the cell phone in the crook of her shoulder while she unlocked her door and started ferrying her purchases inside.

"Hey, Leese," a warm, gravelly voice said.

"Dad!" Lisa said with a smile. She set her keys down on the sofa table in the hall and flicked on the lamp there, illuminating a small part of the dark apartment. "Are you calling to remind me about lunch tomorrow?" Her accusation was playful.

"Just wanted to make sure your schedule was still clear," he said, unabashed. "You know me, Leese – not much else to look forward to."

"Oh, Dad. Don't say that." Lisa finished putting away the groceries and returned to the front door to retrieve her dry cleaning. Switching the phone to her other ear on the way to the bedroom, she reached out to turn on the floor lamp beside the sofa, only to let out a scream when light flooded the room.

She froze, eyes wide, unable to speak, transfixed by the sight of Jackson Rippner in her own living room.

"Lisa!" Her father's frantic voice faded away as Jackson rose smoothly from the chair and took a step toward her. That galvanized Lisa into action – she threw the bundle of clothes at him with as much force as she could muster and ran for the front door. Behind her, Jackson threw off the impromptu projectile and vaulted the sofa with the agility of a cat.

Lisa made the mistake of looking back to check his progress, unintentionally slowing just enough for Jackson to make a grab for her. She cried out as his hand tangled in her sweater and swung her around to crash into his chest. The air left her lungs with a whoosh as their momentum carried them into the sofa table, scattering pictures across the hallway. Too stunned to struggle, Lisa coughed weakly as Jackson groaned and hauled her to her feet by her wrists, ignoring the pain of the collision. "You always were trouble," he hissed, pressing her against the wall with only enough force to keep her still.

She found her voice. "What are you doing here!" Terror and anger suffused her words and she tried to ram her knee into his groin. Jackson simply hooked her leg with his, effectively immobilizing her lower body.

"Now, now, Lisa, is that any way to greet an old friend?" he taunted, gratified to feel her struggle against him even more. He wanted her to recognize her complete helplessness against him; he wanted to taste her fear. But there was time enough for that later. She tried to angle her face away from him to avoid meeting his eyes, so he said, "Look at me, Lisa, and listen very carefully. I'm going to let you go, and here's what we're going to do. You're going to get back on the phone with your dear old dad," he threw in a smirk for good measure, "and tell him that you screamed when you saw a rat run across the room – nothing to worry about, right? Am I right, Lisa?" She looked up at him with fierce hatred in her eyes but nodded. "Good. After that's done, we're going to clean up this mess and get out of here, with none the wiser." Jackson paused, shifted his weight against her, and brought his right hand up to run his thumb across her cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. "No tears? I'm impressed. But Lisa-" he said, sliding his hand around the back of her neck and squeezing hard enough to make her wince, "Don't try anything foolish. The only life at stake here is yours."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I am a poor college student – I don't own any of the characters here and I'm not making any money off of this. Woe.

**A/N: **To everyone who's reviewed this story thus far: thank you so much for the encouragement and enthusiasm! All of your wonderful reviews have certainly lit a fire under me! I hope I can live up to expectations.

So far, I've been leaning heavily toward developing Jackson, but the chapter after this will see more development for Lisa. I probably won't be able to keep up this blistering writing pace for long, because my design prof is going to notice soon that I haven't been doing much work for his class this week. But I hope to continue with weekly (or heaven forbid, biweekly) updates even when I am forced to slow down due to schoolwork.

I get the feeling that this is going to seem like a really strange or perhaps repetitive chapter to some due to the concepts involved, but bear with me – I am going somewhere with all of this. :)

* * *

An hour out of Miami, Lisa at last found the nerve to break the silence. "You know, you once said you never lied to me, but you did."

Jackson's blue eyes narrowed and he spared a glance at his captive. She'd been remarkably compliant during the clean-up in her apartment, and had followed his instructions perfectly and without protest. This, naturally, had aroused his suspicions, but he'd been interested in seeing where she was going with her little act. He knew with rock-solid certainty that her brave face was just that – it showed in the occasional quiver of her bottom lip, in the shaky exhalations she tried to disguise as yawns, in the way she started every time he shifted in his seat. Now she stared out the window at what little of the landscape she could make out – at this time of night, there weren't many headlights to break the long stretches of darkness on I-75 northbound. He'd been lost in thought, but her censure got his attention.

She took a deep breath and continued, assuming he didn't mean to rise to the bait. "Everything you said might have been true, but everything you did was a lie. Back in the airport, when you were trying to pass yourself off as a charming stranger. And on the airplane – everything you did for that blonde, every new face you presented the flight attendants." She turned away from the window and crossed her arms. "So much for Jackson Rippner's unflagging honesty."

For a brief moment, Jackson's face was a rictus of disbelief and he felt the anger start to bubble up – if Lisa was trying to provoke him, she was doing a damn fine job of it. But he refused to let her have the upper hand, and quickly flashed her his most supercilious smirk. It was best to let her think that her words couldn't phase him; it would go a long way toward depriving her of about the only weapon she had left against him.

"So you want to talk about character flaws, do you, Lisa? Then let's talk about yours." His smirk broadened as her body stiffened; she suddenly seemed harder around the edges, almost brittle. "Ah. I seem to have hit a nerve. How careless of me," Jackson said. "It's only fair, though – you had your shot at me." He tilted his head to one side, as if listening for the response that would never come. "I must admit, I was rather surprised when you went out and got shitfaced last night. I didn't think you had it in you."

He looked over to gauge the effect of his words and was pleased to see her blush. It was a powerful feeling, knowing that he could induce such a reaction in her with so little effort, and he savored it as he would a fine wine. "Oh, yes," he assured her, "I saw that. Tell me, Lisa, did you manage to drown your sorrows in an ocean of vodka?"

"No," she said softly, unsure of what compelled her to actually answer.

"No," came the mocking echo, "No, you wouldn't find comfort there, would you?" He opened his mouth to go on, and then paused as if reconsidering. When Jackson finally spoke, his voice was laced with bitterness. "There's no easy way out for people like us, is there?"

Lisa's brow furrowed at the odd comment. She chanced a look at Jackson, but his eyes were fixed on the highway ahead and he said no more. The white of his knuckles on the steering wheel betrayed him, however, and added another layer of surreality to the exhange. What was he getting at? She _hated_ him, hated his taunts and his threats, hated that he'd hijacked her life again, hated that she was at his mercy...

But she suspected that she'd just had her first glimpse of Jackson Rippner sans artifice, and that was food for thought.

* * *

Dawn found them on the outskirts of Macon, Georgia and nearly out of gas. He'd refilled once already since leaving Miami, but that pit stop had been less of a logistical nightmare: in the dead of night, there were few, if any, people around who would be inclined to come to Lisa's aid. It had been a moot point in the end – she'd fallen asleep, exhausted by the stress and constant fear, and stayed that way for the better part of the night. At the time, Jackson had been pleased; it saved him the trouble of drugging her to keep her under control, and spared him any more of her rhetorical bravado. But now she was awake, fairly well-rested, and no doubt occupying herself with a variety of ways to throw a monkey wrench into his plans. Add that to the fact that _he_ was about to fall asleep at the wheel and Jackson had a recipe for disaster.

Lisa's heart leaped when he put on the turn signal for the next exit and pulled off the highway – a stop at a gas station presented her with an opportunity to escape. She took a calming breath and tried to quell the sick fear doing a number on her empty stomach. Afraid of broadcasting her anxiety, she laced her fingers together to keep from fidgeting. She didn't have much of a plan, really – just get out, run for the store, and hope against hope that the attendant kept a gun behind the counter.

The early morning mist swathing the deserted parking lot of the Exxon station set an eerie stage for their conflict. It was as if they were the only people left in the world, locked in a struggle that neither one could fully comprehend. A feeling of foreboding suffused Lisa's body – if her attempt to escape failed, Jackson's reprisal would likely be swift and furious. The thought nearly set her teeth chattering.

Jackson killed the engine and fixed Lisa with a warning stare. It was difficult to maintain the delicate control required to manipulate her when he was this tired, but he made an effort. "I would tell you not to try anything, but I'm afraid the admonition would fall on deaf ears." He made a show of taking the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car, not bothering to lock her in.

Lisa leaned forward to study her nemesis while he watched the digital readout on the pump. His stance was relaxed, but she could see evidence of weariness in the slump of his shoulders. He kept his hands in his pockets.

With a click, the pump shut off automatically. Jackson straightened and reached for the nozzle.

As soon as he was distracted, Lisa pulled the handle and threw herself against the door of the car. It popped open and she tumbled out, grateful that she had been wearing flats instead of heels the night before. In the moment it took her to gain her footing, she heard a muffled curse from Jackson and the sound of metal clattering against concrete.

It was a footrace, then, over the fifteen yards to the convenience store - Lisa with a head start, Jackson with longer legs. She beat him to the door, hitting it at full speed, only to be stopped dead. It was locked. Panic growing, Lisa rattled the door and pounded on the glass. She craned her neck to try and catch sight of anyone inside, but there was no one. Where the hell was the attendant? "Is anyone in there? Please help me!" she cried out in desperation.

All hope died when Jackson grabbed her from behind, wrapped an arm around her throat and drew her close. Lisa clung to his arm with both hands as he increased the pressure just enough to make her eyes swim with painful tears. "I didn't think you were this stupid, Leese," he whispered in her ear, almost rueful, his breath ragged and hot against her skin. "I think the outcome of our little tiff at your dad's house has gone to your head. You can't beat me even when I give you a head start. "

There was the sound of metal against leather, and a long knife entered Lisa's field of vision. It was black from hilt to point, and glinted dully in the weak light – no tell-tale flash of cold, hard steel would herald a strike. She shuddered, and Jackson smiled into her hair. "Don't make me use this," he said, flourishing the blade once for her benefit before resheathing it. The ease with which he handled the weapon unnerved her almost as much as the knife itself, but at the same time, his mastery was reassuring. He was deliberate, in control, purposeful – _his_ hand wouldn't slip. "Are we on the same page now, Lisa?"

She waited a moment before nodding slowly. Her vision blurred, but not as much has the lines between their encounters. Her encounters. It was hard to breathe, hard to stay in the present.

"Good girl. No more foolhardy antics for you."

With a wary glance into the store – still no signs of life – Jackson forced Lisa back to the car and into the passenger seat, confident that this aborted escape attempt would disabuse her of the notion of physically besting him. He replaced the nozzle in the pump and screwed the cap back on the gas tank as if nothing had happened, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins had erased all vestiges of his exhaustion. The physical strain of the chase had triggered the rush, but there was something else there, something more subtle that he struggled to put his finger on as he tore his receipt from the machine and got back into the car.

He looked over at Lisa, who sat stock still, staring steadfastly out the window, and his brain finally made the leap. It was her – the feel of her pressed against him, the softness of her hair against his cheek, the fading aroma of her light perfume.

Jackson's mouth tightened as he started the car and pulled out of the station. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing.

He was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **You know the drill: poor college student, don't own anything, not making any money off of this. It's sad, I know.

**A/N: **The list of wonderful, supportive reviewers of this story is so long now that I don't know what to say aside from thank you so much! If not for y'all, I wouldn't be writing this fast. It's a great experience, and a little terrifying. (Much like NaNoWriMo.)

There's an apt little epigraph for this chapter, but overall, this is a bit darker. Yes, Jackson has some baggage, but Lisa has that much more, and I felt a need to explore some of that. Don't worry – the next chapter should introduce some semblance of an overarching plot as well as more interaction between our two favorite characters. Poor Jackson was just really, really tired and had to go get some sleep during this chapter.

* * *

"_Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly._

* * *

Everything hurt – her throat, her back, her pride.

Lisa couldn't find it within herself to care at the moment, however, and stared out the window of the car, eyes unfocused, not even seeing the Atlanta skyline outside. They'd arrived in the city about an hour and a half after the disaster at the Exxon. In the back of her mind, she had expected Jackson to keep driving endlessly toward some unfathomable destination – why, she didn't know – so she'd been surprised when he took a downtown exit and headed for this place.

It was an old building, ten stories high, and desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint. They took the stairs to the seventh floor, Jackson insisting that she go first. His directions had become as terse as possible since her attempted escape, and Lisa couldn't read him accurately enough to tell if it was out of anger or design.

The apartment seemed to be an old bolt-hole of Jackson's, populated by a few pieces of well-worn furniture. A heavy mahogany desk in the corner of the living room was the obvious center of all his operations in Atlanta – it was covered in paper, stacked neatly and color-coded with Post-It notes. Jackson's presence permeated the space, and Lisa recognized the phenomenon. She knew all too well what it was like to inhabit a space so frequently, so frenetically, that it became imbued with _you_.

He tossed the duffel bag that had been in the back seat of his car down onto the couch and watched her with interest. With an expansive gesture, he said, "I hope you like what you see, Lisa, since we'll be staying here for a while." The words, taken at face value, were solicitous, but Lisa knew better. Whatever his purpose was, whatever he had planned for her, he meant to do it here. She looked at him with eyes full of dread as he moved to stand directly in front of her. Jackson was close enough for her to see the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, but not close enough to actually invade her personal space. They simply watched each other for a long moment, she too numb with fear and despair to try to fight him and he too weary to torment her.

"Follow me," he said at last, and led her by the arm into a short corridor off of which were several doors. At the last door on the right, Jackson withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Suddenly realizing that this was to be her prison, Lisa tried to back away, but his grip on her elbow tightened and he drew her back. "Now, Lisa," he said, some of the usual mockery back in his voice, "we should both get some rest. We have a busy few days ahead of us." With that, he pushed her across the threshold and closed the door behind her. Lisa immediately pressed her ear against the dark wood and caught the sound of the key turning in the lock.

That was it, then. She twisted until her back was against the door and choked back a sob. She rubbed at her neck; Jackson's chokehold had left her sore and most likely bruised. He hadn't really gone out of his way to hurt her, and she supposed that she should be grateful he hadn't strangled her to death, but he certainly wasn't shy about using force to keep her in line. She could handle physical discomfort relatively well as long as it wasn't crippling – field hockey had toughened her up in college, and managing the Lux Atlantic necessarily involved a lot of headaches and aching feet. It was the psychological torment that gnawed away at her.

Lisa had been happy enough before the attack – the rape, she corrected herself, call it what it was – shattered her carefully constructed world. It had taken her six months to accept the fact and begin to concentrate on recovery – six months of steadfast denial and pushing away friends and family, and then a year of therapy. For the better part of a year, now, she'd been on her own except for her parents and the support group recommended by her therapist. She usally missed those meetings due to her long hours at the hotel, but every once in a while she managed to get off early and swing by. Interacting with people who had had similar experiences was bittersweet; the sense of camaraderie and understanding was invaluable, but Lisa still hated to be reminded of the afternoon that so drastically changed her life.

She loathed the scar that marred the smooth skin of her chest more than anything else, because it did just that on a daily basis. During those long months of denial, Lisa regularly covered up the scar with a thick layer of a foundation specially formulated to conceal such blemishes. It didn't matter that she'd purchased new blouses with necklines that guaranteed that the mark was always hidden - it was enough to just know it was there, and she didn't want to see it at all.

That had changed, however, during therapy. She would never welcome the sight, but Lisa didn't feel compelled to hide the scar from herself anymore. It was still painful to look at the thickened flesh for too long, and always summoned up a host of troublesome emotions running the gamut from anger to shame, but if she tried hard enough, she could sometimes draw a quiet strength out of the turmoil. She had survived. She _would_ survive.

Sitting there against the door, thinking about the ordeal of the past two years and fighting the familiar depression and nausea, brought back a fresher memory – Jackson uncovering the scar in the tiny bathroom on the plane. He'd been strangely respectful, reverent even, upon discovering the evidence of her vulnerability.

_"Did someone do this to you?" he asked, curiosity softening his voice. She couldn't talk, couldn't think._

Lisa shook her head. Her mind was playing tricks on her again, altering memories to make them less traumatic. There was no sugar-coating the truth, however: Jackson Rippner was a hated enemy, and one who was trying to ruin her life. She would just have to keep reminding herself of that inescapable fact and clamp down on the emotions running rampant within her. All it would take was one window of opportunity, one moment of weakness, for him to get her off balance and keep her that way.

So her first order of business was to figure out a way to change her circumstances. Lisa picked herself up off the floor, brushed the dust off her slacks, and considered her options. Overtly fighting Jackson was out of the question now – he'd subdued her twice already, and she had the scrapes and bruises to prove it. Based on prior experience, he didn't seem to resort to physical violence unless provoked, so she decided to assume that this time, the danger would be psychological. He liked to play with words, fashion them into barbs, and dispatch them with calculated efficiency. Even more than that, though, he strove to project an image of sophistication and intelligence, as if he'd already planned for every contingency. Sometimes, Lisa admitted to herself, it seemed that he had.

A cursory glance around the room told Lisa that Jackson had already removed any objects that were easily concealed and potentially harmful. For the first time in twelve hours, a small smile curved her lips. "Not too keen on another impromptu tracheotomy, are you?" she said aloud. A more thorough inspection proved fruitless – between the bedroom and the adjoining bathroom, she had a bed, a heavy oak nightstand, a shower curtain with plastic hooks, and a roll of toilet paper. With a sigh, Lisa crossed the room to inspect the window. It would be easy enough to for someone to shatter the glass and use a shard as a weapon, but Lisa shuddered at the thought. "No," she said to herself, as if vocalizing the word would banish the nightmare images of a crumpled body in her dad's foyer and the staccato eruptions of blood on Jackson's shirt. She wished she could forget it all and try to move on with her life, but something always drew her back into this vicious cycle. She'd given into those basest of instincts once before – she couldn't afford to do it again.

There had to be some other way out. She just wasn't seeing it right now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything and I'm not making any money off of this. You know the drill.

**A/N:** I know it sounds repetitive, but thank you again to all of the people who have reviewed this story! Reviews are my virtual crack; I'm thoroughly addicted.

I picked up the pace a little bit with this chapter and glossed over a few things, so I hope it works. Lots of Jackson and hints of his tormented past here. I just can't help it, I love the angst. Enjoy!

* * *

After sleeping soundly through the rest of the morning and half of the afternoon, Jackson felt refreshed and ready to face his quarry.

Well, mostly ready, he thought as he stood outside the room he'd set aside for her.

He knew he was treading on dangerous ground already, especially after their early morning tussle. This wasn't a paying job, it wasn't just business – it was personal. Emotional. Illogical. Rife with opportunities for him to lose control of the situation

Temporarily pushing those thoughts aside, Jackson took a page out of Lisa's book and turned the key in the lock as quietly as possible. In order to prevent her from making any foolish attempts to ambush him when he opened the door, he'd had it re-hung to open onto the hallway instead of into the room. The resulting configuration would be less resistant to a determined assault from within, but he doubted that Lisa was quite that strong. He cracked the door open and, perceiving no immediate threat, ventured into the room.

Jackson was surprised to see Lisa curled up on the bed with her back to the door. After softly closing the door behind him, he approached cautiously, his body wound as tight as a spring in anticipation of a ploy. But when he circled around to the other side of the bed, Jackson found that her breathing was soft and regular, her features relaxed in sleep. The tension seeped out of his muscles.

Planning it all out had been the easy part – it was a simple thing to remain detached when running through hypothetical situations and contingency plans, and he'd spent many a long, painful night fantasizing about his revenge. But now, as he stood over his adversary, finally able to study her at length in close proximity, it was hard to summon up the dark images.

It was impressive, really, that she could tease out the lingering shreds of his humanity by just lying there.

In the beginning, it was just a job: strong-arm some girl her into using her clout as a hotel manager to facilitate the assassination of Charles Keefe, deputy director of Homeland Security. Jackson had presented several alternatives to the client – different ways of getting the job done with considerably more grace and less margin for error – but the Russians had wanted none of it. It had to be spectacular, and what was more spectacular than a great, big explosion? he thought with a sneer. The decision rankled, of course. But he was a professional, and the best in his field; if anyone could pull it off, it would be Jackson Rippner.

So he watched the girl for two months, taking detailed notes of her movements and attachments. It was like studying a subject under a microscope – he looked at her from every angle with clinical regard and condensed her life into the most basic set of triggers he could use to manipulate her. Let the Russians have their missile launchers – he would take these intimate weapons above theirs any day. He explored every option, every visible facet of her life and personality. She would acquiese quickly; he was sure of it.

Unfortunately for Jackson, there was more to Lisa Reisert than he thought.

His troubles began in the ticket line at the airport – his extensive observations had prepared him for her beauty, but not for her vivacity. Lisa was a practiced conversationalist, with a ready answer for every wry comment he made, and he found himself engaging her with enthusiasm. It was easy to be charming with her, but Jackson wisely refused himself any kind of regret before setting his plan into motion. There could be no room for doubt, and no sympathy for the pawns in his elaborate game. The line between interaction and empathy was a fine one, and he had been adept at walking it.

Well, that was then, and this was now, he thought as he moved closer to inspect those tantalizing curls and pale skin. He crouched down beside the bed. All of the lines he'd grown accustomed to were blurring – because of _her. _

Although Lisa's makeup was smudged, her clothing wrinkled, and her hair mussed, Jackson found her disarray appealing. In sleep, she couldn't lie to him, and she couldn't hurt him. She was unequivocally his, if only for a short while. That was what he wanted in the end, wasn't it?

He wasn't sure any more just what he wanted. Part of him – a dark part that was sometimes hard to rein in – rebelled at his calm consideration of Lisa and burned for revenge almost constantly. None of this sentimental foolishness! it said. Hurt her. Make her pay for her lies. For _all_ of the lies. That rage had broken free once before at the airport, when Lisa – conniving bitch, that dark part spat – had betrayed him and reneged their agreement. He'd wanted her dead, then.

His furious hatred had allowed him to cling to life in the hospital, and it was hard to give it up now after it had fueled him for so long.

But as much as part of him wanted her to suffer, another, more human part of him was beginning to realize that he just plain _wanted_ her. Her mind, her body, her soul, even. Whatever he could get.

It wasn't love – he hadn't been capable of that in a long time. But it was lust, perhaps, or maybe just obssession. She was equated with so many different things in his mind – failure, pain, kinship, longing, conquest – that it was hard to tell where she left off and the rest of the world began. He'd felt something for her in that bathroom on the plane: compassion. Sympathy. Jackson knew what it was like to be scarred – physically, emotionally, you name it – and he knew that his probing touch had rattled her.

His nostrils flared in annoyance at the thought. Well, of course it had rattled her – enough to stick a ball-point pen right into his trachea.

Those dichotomies plagued him when it came to Lisa – business or personal, pain or pleasure, strength or weakness, anger or sympathy. Life or death.

He wouldn't kill her – couldn't kill her, really. But he could keep her at his mercy until he figured out exactly how to resolve this hold she had on him.

Jackson knew it was a bad idea, but he stretched out his left hand to finger a strand of her hair. Spontaneous contact was always a bad sign, he told himself.

It was even worse when she caught him at it.

* * *

Lisa's eyes snapped open – unfocused at first, she didn't know what had jolted her from sleep, but her instincts were already on high alert – someone was in her space, someone was touching her, get up, get away – and she lashed out with a fist. Agony shot through her hand when she solidly connected with something hard that elicited a satisfying grunt of pain– was that _Jackson_? Not pausing to inspect her handiwork, she scrambled over the other side of the double bed, heart pounding in her chest, breaths short and shallow.

Feeling a little better with the bed between her and her assailant, Lisa turned to see Jackson getting to his feet, holding a hand against one cheek. Gratification and anger mixed with a note of fear came on the heels of the adrenaline running through her body, and she said, "What the hell were you doing?"

Jackson glared at her. Words failed him. "Nothing."

"Ah, right," Lisa said, sarcasm thick in her voice. "'Nothing.' I can buy that – you just kidnap me, bring me here, come in while I'm sleeping and you're doing _nothing_."

"I certainly don't have to -"

He never got a chance to finish his sentence – a loud crash came from the direction of the living room, followed by the sound of booted feet on hardwood. Distant murmurs floated down the hallway and through the door, and Jackson's eyes hardened.

While Lisa was momentarily distracted by the interruption, he crossed the distance between them, clamped a hand over her mouth, and dragged her into the shelter of the bathroom. Too shocked to struggle, Lisa went along without a fight.

"Listen to me very carefully, Lisa," Jackson said, his voice barely above a whisper and deadly serious. She frowned against his hand. "I know you don't want to, but you're going to have to trust me – for a little while, at least. Believe me when I say that we are both in some deep shit as soon as those guys make their way down this hallway. Can I trust you to stay quiet?" When she nodded, he dropped his hand from her mouth and she took a deep breath.

"Maybe the police qualify as a threat to you, but -"

"Not the police," Jackson said matter-of-factly as he unsheathed the knife he'd threatened her with earlier in the day and examined the blade to calm himself. A humorless grin stretched his lips. "The police tend to announce themselves."

"Then who -"

"Could be anybody, really. Bounty hunters, disgruntled business associates, and so on. You don't make too many friends in my line of work. They shouldn't have been able to find me here." Lisa gave him an annoyed look. He ignored it. "They'll probably shoot you as soon as look at you, so I'll draw them into my room, which is across the hall, and you make a run for it. But Lisa?" He smirked knowingly. "Don't go too far. I'll catch up with you."

Like hell you will, Lisa thought, but kept silent. She would let him play the action hero and make good her escape - she was hardly surprised that he had people clamoring for his head on a platter.

"Come on," he said, knife at the ready, and led her out of the bathroom. Assuming the invaders were professionals, they would still be searching their way through the apartment. All he had to do was get their attention and make it across the hallway – when they finally came to him, he would make short work of them. The slap-dash plan could go terribly wrong, of course, but Jackson didn't really have time for anything more. He wouldn't have gotten this far without some measure of improvisational skill.

It went better than expected right up until the end. The armed men came down the hallway after Jackson like dogs after a particularly appetizing bone, and the sounds of the slaughter made Lisa's blood run cold. She ran, too, and would have made it to the front door but for the rear guard posted there. She froze. He raised his gun and fired.

Jackson came running at the sound of the gunshot and her strangled cry. Met with the sight of Lisa sliding down against the wall of the living room and the rear guard chambering another round to finish the job, Jackson snarled and struck.

Lisa didn't make a sound as Jackson helped her sit up against the wall. She had her hands pressed to her right side, so he moved them away from the area as gently as possible to have a look.

Her palms were covered in blood.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Alas, I don't own anything having to do with Red Eye and won't be making any money off of this. I do it for the love – don't sue me.

* * *

Jackson's stomach lurched at the sight of the blood. He wasn't squeamish by any means, as evidenced by the carnage that littered the apartment, but there was something fundamentally _wrong_ with the fact that it was Lisa who was slumped against the wall, wounded. She was supposed to be invulnerable, unable to be broken by normal means. It was too brutal. Too inelegant.

He didn't waste time asking her if she was all right – the answer to that tired question was fairly obvious. She was in shock, her green eyes slightly glazed and her skin clammy. The procedures for dealing with shock in adults floated to the top of his racing mind, and Jackson took comfort in the logical progression he needed to follow.

Dropping Lisa's hands into her lap, he gingerly lifted the edge of her light sweater, now stained with blood, to assess the damage and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the bullet had grazed her instead of hitting straight on. The ugly furrow in her skin was raw and still bleeding, but definitely nonfatal. "It looks worse than it is," he said, "but we have to stop the bleeding. Can you stand?"

Lisa pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head. Her skin was paler than ever and beads of sweat were forming on her forehead. "Hold on, then." With that, Jackson gathered her slight form up into his arms, heedless of the blood that smeared them both, and carried her to the couch.

She hurt too much to mind his proximity. Was it only last night that she'd fought him tooth and nail? It was too much to deal with, too much to handle and stay sane, these reversals of fortunes and roles. He eased her down onto the couch and she winced as she sank into the cushions – it felt as if her right side were on fire. She'd never experienced anything quite like the smoldering pain that gripped her now.

Jackson left to go rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. When he returned with latex gloves, a wet rag, gauze, a bottle of prescription painkillers, and a glass of water, Lisa's incredulity overcame the pain long enough for her to raise an eyebrow at him. "What, you plan for things like this?"

His old smirk returned in force at her words. "I make it a point to keep...versatile items on hand. Are you complaining?" he said as used the rag to swab the blood from her hands. Jackson then donned the gloves and folded a patch of gauze with brisk efficiency. Lisa found the energy to scowl at him when he pulled the hem of her sweater up again and gently inspected the inflamed flesh before pressing the gauze down on the wound. "Keep some pressure on that; I'll check it in about fifteen minutes. Once the bleeding's stopped, you'll take the painkillers." Satisfied that she would follow his instructions, Jackson rose, stripped off the latex gloves, and disappeared down the hallway.

Lisa leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling and pressed harder on the gauze. Maybe I can make myself pass out, she thought, and when I wake up, all of this will be a very bad dream. Tears of pain and frustration pricked the backs of her eyelids, and she blinked furiously to keep them at bay. The temptation to just let her emotions run unchecked was powerful, and at the moment, she was beyond caring about keeping up appearances with Jackson. The whole situation was stupid – _he_ was stupid for dragging her into this – and now to top it all off, she'd been _shot_. When had her life turned into a bad action movie?

When Jackson came back carrying his duffel bag and wearing a fresh suit, Lisa's eyes were closed and he experienced a moment of fear. Was she injured more seriously than he'd first thought? "You still with me, Leese?" Crouching down beside the couch, he pushed her hand out of the way and lifted the blood-stained gauze to check the wound.

Lisa groaned and wet her lips with her tongue. "Why won't you just take me to the hospital?" she asked him. Her voice was tight with renewed pain.

So she hadn't passed out after all. The familiar mask settled back into place. "Why do you always ask questions you already know the answers to?" he responded as he changed the gauze and used a roll of surgical tape that he'd found in the bathroom to tape the material down. "You know I won't let you go that easily, Leese."

Anger flared. "What more do you want? This isn't enough for you?"

"This wasn't quite what I had in mind, to be honest. But we can work around it." He dug around in the duffel bag and withdrew a worn white t-shirt. "Do you want to put this on yourself, or would you like some help?" he asked with an air of false accommodation.

If looks could kill, Jackson would be dead a thousand times over. Lisa gritted her teeth and said, "I hate you," but didn't protest when he pulled the ruined sweater up and over her head. She felt his eyes come to rest on her scar and fought to keep her pulse steady. The air between them was thick. Just leave it and get that damn t-shirt onshe thought, shivering as the cold air of the apartment collided with her exposed flesh and left her covered in goosebumps. Some wicked little part of her mind chose that moment to wonder what it would be like if he were the one giving her those goosebumps, if he suddenly took it into his head to -

Lisa ruthlessly quashed _that_ thought.

She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until Jackson finally pulled the old shirt down over her head and arms and a sigh of relief escaped her lips. "Take this," he said peremptorily, shaking an oblong white pill out of the medicine bottle and dropping it into her hand.

"What now?" she asked once she was done choking down the caplet. Lisa hated swallowing pills – painkillers, antidepressants, it didn't matter. She'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

"We get the hell out of here. I'll go load the car, make sure there aren't any more where they came from -" here he cast a pointed glance at the body still by the door, "while the painkiller kicks in. You should be able to walk by then."

As soon as he was gone, Lisa struggled to sit up and swung her legs over the edge of the couch. The pain in her side intensified and a wave of nausea swept over her, but she refused to give into it. She would walk to that car if it killed her – no more of Jackson carrying her around like a sack of potatoes. Besides, she had a feeling that he took a perverse pleasure in her helplessness. By the time he returned empty-handed, Lisa was clutching the kitchen counter and studiously looking at everything but the corpse on the floor. The thought didn't help her nausea one bit.

Jackson's blue eyes flashed in annoyance at the sight of her up and about, but he simply wrapped one arm around her waist and threw her left arm over his shoulder. The journey down the seven flights of stairs was arduous, but Lisa managed to stay conscious. The medicine was finally starting to take effect – everything seemed blurry and distant. She was vaguely aware of him helping her into the car, and then the hum of the engine, and the blast of the air conditioning. When they stopped a short while later and he came around to help her out of the car, Lisa forced her eyes open and tried to figure out what was going on.

She must have looked bewildered. "We're taking the train to Midtown," Jackson explained as they started across the parking lot. He was more discreet now, with only one arm draped around her waist, hand on her opposite hip – to the casual observer, they would look like an affectionate young couple. It was hot outside, so hot that the quick trip across the parking lot sapped what little energy she had left. On the train, Lisa leaned against Jackson's shoulder, beyond caring about anything but the fact that he was there, he was solid, and he wouldn't let her fall into the aisle.

Her body against his was distracting, to be sure, and if the circumstances had been different, Jackson might have enjoyed the contact. But instead he occupied himself with planning his next move. Once Lisa was settled, he would have to do a little detective work, maybe call in a few favors to find out who'd been behind the attack on his apartment. His jaw tightened at the thought. Cleaning up that mess was also a priority – he had little hope that he would ever be able to use the apartment again, which was a shame considering he'd been living there on and off for the better part of a decade, but it wouldn't do to have the police swarming all over the place before he could secure the information therein.

"Peachtree Center Station," came the announcement, interrupting Jackson's racing thoughts. He sensed that Lisa was fading quickly, and it became more difficult to guide her through the crush of Atlanta foot traffic - the sight of the Ritz-Carlton was indeed welcome.

"Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, Atlanta" the perky concierge said by way of greeting when they came dragging in. If she noticed Lisa's disheveled state, she gave no indication. "How may we serve you this evening?"

Jackson mustered up the charm that he definitely was not feeling right now and smiled at the blond. "Hi. I'm really sorry this is so abrupt, but my wife and I were just passing through town when she came down with a nasty case of food poisoning." Here the woman's eyes finally lit on Lisa and widened just a bit. He had to wonder how many times Lisa had faced similar situations at the Lux Atlantic. "I stay here all the time on business, so my name should be in the computer under Roberts. John Roberts."

The click of the keyboard was the only sound for a few moments before the woman said, "Ah, yes, here you are. Mr. John Roberts. Will you have the Deluxe Room or Suite?"

"The Suite, please. And book it for a week to start off with, if you would, ah -" Jackson glanced at her nametag. "Ellen. Thank you very much."

"It's my pleasure," she returned smoothly, assembling a packet with room keys, pamphlets, and other detritus of hotel stays. With a glance at Lisa, she lowered her voice and asked, "Would you like to take advantage of our medical services for your wife? I can send a doctor up to tend to her."

Jackson smiled and shook his head. "No, no, we just came from the hospital. Thank you again." A doctor discovering the truth about Lisa's condition was about the last complication he needed right now.

Ellen watched until the pair disappeared into one of the lobby elevators. "Poor thing," she mused, turning back to her work. "At least she's got someone to look after her."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm strangely ambivalent about this chapter – it works for me, but it's not really heavy on plot. Or earth-shattering revelations, really. Just dealing with the aftermath of the last chapter and changing settings. But if you think about it, it's been less that 36 hours since all of this began, so naturally things will move kind of slow. I toyed with the idea of having Lisa seriously injured, but that would make things more difficult later on – there's still a long ride ahead! Also, I'm trying to throw in pretty subtle hints about the backstory I've created in my head for Jackson, so kudos to you if you pick up on them.

There are far too many absolutely wonderful reviews coming in for me to respond to every single one, but I wanted to give a special shout-out to **NeverEndingNightmare** and **steph88NYC **for theirs in particular. Warm fuzzies all around! Thank you so much for the encouragement!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Well, I still don't own anything having to do with Red Eye, and I'm not making any money off of this. Surprise, surprise.

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone for the kind reviews and for your patience – this last week has been rough, school-wise, and this coming week isn't looking much better, so updates will be a little more sporadic. Also, I don't know where Will came from – he just kind of showed up, and I ran with it.

* * *

Cool and dark, the interior of the Hare and Hound contrasted starkly with the humid air and neon lights of Atlanta at night. Jackson straightened his cuffs as he took the five steps down into the common room of the pub. Dim lamplight filtered through the smoke-filled space, caressing dark wood polished smooth by years of traffic. The crowd was modest, he decided, and seemed to be composed of both the regulars and those out looking for a good time. With any luck, the particular old-timer he was looking for would be occupying his customary spot in some secluded corner, nursing a pint of stout.

Time was of the essence, but there was protocol to follow, so Jackson made his way to the bar and ordered a beer that he didn't intend to drink. It would take some time for news of his arrival to make the rounds; all he could do in the meantime was wait. He preferred hard liquor, but rarely indulged – the last time, in fact, had been at that fateful Tex Mex in the Dallas airport. A bourbon, straight up, with a plate of nachos on the side served to keep him occupied while he awaited his mark. He had been smugly satisfied with himself and with the bait he'd dangled in front of Lisa – the promise of some flirtatious little interlude at an airport restaurant, inspired in part by the romantic comedies she watched so often. Only now did he have an idea of what it had cost her to take him up on his offer of companionship.

That train of thought was bothersome, and Jackson traced abstract shapes in the condensation trailing down the glass before him to distract himself. He couldn't relax. A search of the three bodies in his apartment had yielded little of interest: standard issue Berettas with the serial numbers filed off, generic clothing, and no tattoos on any of them. Those tidbits ruled out a possibility or two – not bounty hunters, maybe not even the Russians after him for the failure of the Keefe job – and revealed that a professional was behind the hit.

With a casual air, Jackson inspected his fingernails for any lingering traces of blood. He wasn't used to it, the gore of a slit throat or gut, the wet burbling of a last breath, the warm, sticky spray. The immediacy of death. It dredged up memories that he would rather keep buried. His stomach rebelled at that thought, but he inhaled deeply and forced himself to focus. In his estimation, sometimes life was reduced to the most simple of equations: kill or be killed. When backed up against the wall, Jackson always chose the former. Call it a bloodthirsty nature, or call it a survival instinct – the fact remained the same.

"Mr. Rippner." The formal address interrupted Jackson's contemplation and sent the fatalistic thoughts scurrying for the dark corners of his mind.

Finally, Jackson thought as he turned, following the gruff voice to find the matching face of an older man with a shock of white hair and the beginnings of a paunch. Eyeing the last, Jackson said, "Been having a few too many pints there, Will?"

The man clicked his tongue in good-natured disappointment. "Still lacking all respect for your elders, I see." He jerked his head toward the deeper recesses of the pub. "Care to join me?"

"That's what I'm here for," Jackson replied, feeling a little less dour as they exchanged their ritual banter. "It's almost like old times."

Will cast a sharp glance over his shoulder but said nothing more until they were ensconced in the expected corner booth. "There's been a lot of talk about lately," the old man probed delicately. "I heard tell that you were laid up for a while."

Reflexively, Jackson's hand traveled to the base of his throat where the collar of his shirt almost hid the round white scar. "That would be an understatement," he said. The overtones of bitterness and anger in his voice were obvious. "I let a job get out of hand, and she managed to put some holes in me. It was quite the laundry list – perforated trachea, puncture wound to the thigh, a collapsed lung, fractured fingers, and an entire array of bruises and lacerations."

"Mmmm," came the noncommital reply, muffled by a mouthful of Guiness. "Sounds like you got too close."

The muscles in his jaw spasmed and his blue eyes blazed. It didn't matter that the analysis was accurate – it mattered that he was still so transparent before this man. "Damn it, you think I don't know that?" Jackson fought to keep his voice low.

"No, I think you know that very well. It was merely an observation." Will steepled his thick fingers under his chin. "From where I sit, you seem to have recovered your health, but not your temper." He held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "That is not a condemnation. You're no longer my student; I have no grounds to pass judgment on your work. However, I will admit that I'm curious about the particulars of your last mission."

"Like I said, I failed."

"Come now, Mr. Rippner. Treat me to one of your infamous diagnoses."

Jackson closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Will O'Sullivan had always been and would always be a difficult son of a bitch, but he was one of the few people in the world Jackson could trust implicitly. So he launched into a description of the Keefe job from the preliminary plans rejected by the Russians to the gory details of Flight 1019. He was pleased that he managed to keep his tone clinical when speaking of Lisa, but it was a small victory. The story of his escape from custody concluded the recitation; he fell silent with an expectant look at Will – after all this time, it was still habitual.

The vaccuum between them filled with the sounds of the pub – glasses clinking, murmured conversation, the far-off thunk of a dart finding its mark – until Will finally spoke. "There's something you're not telling me."

Jackson glanced away, as if assessing the room. When he looked back to his former mentor, his manner was bold. "I had unfinished business in Miami."

With an exasperated sigh, Will took a long draw from his nearly empty glass. "Revenge. Foolish lad. She's here, then?"

"Right now, she's passed out on painkillers back at the hotel." At Will's questioning look, Jackson elaborated, "We were attacked at the apartment – she was grazed by a bullet." He leaned forward. "What I need is information."

"And a real doctor."

He let the jibe slide and pressed on. "These were professionals, Will, and if I'm going to get out of this one alive, I'll have to address the problem."

"It seems to me that you have several problems that need addressing," the older man said thoughtfully, stroking his whiskered chin. "If it were anyone else, I'd tell them I'm retired. But I'll make an exception for a star pupil." He fixed Jackson with a piercing gaze to rival his own ice blue one. "Though if you know what's good for you, Mr. Rippner, you'll take me to see the girl first. Right after you pick up the tab."

* * *

"Miss Reisert. Can you hear me?"

The unfamiliar voice eventually broke through Lisa's drugged haze and she forced her eyes open to see an older man towering above her with Jackson hanging back a few steps, arms folded across his chest, watching her lazily. "Will O'Sullivan," he supplied when he saw her eyes on him. "He's a doctor."

"The wound isn't severe, but it'll bear watching," Will said over his shoulder after examining the site and replacing the bandage. "The shock seems to have worn off, but she needs to get something on her stomach before the next dose of Vicodin." He patted Lisa's hand before stepping away to converse quietly with Jackson.

The fatherly gesture brought homesick tears to her eyes and she was glad when they left her alone, Will promising to return with food. Her stomach twisted at the thought of something to eat – it had been a day and a half since she'd had anything at all. It was hard to focus because of the medication, but the painful growling of her stomach demanded attention. When the doctor finally returned with a plate – room service, it looked like – Lisa ate with gusto despite the man's continued presence. His watchful eyes were somehow less disconcerting than Jackson's, though she wasn't certain she wanted to know how he'd gotten involved in this. He didn't seem to be under any duress from Jackson, which meant that he must be an associate, or even a friend. That last possibility was alien – it was hard to imagine Jackson having friends. Acquaintances, yes, maybe even ones who thought of him as a friend, but she doubted he reciprocated. Friendship required an emotional investment of which Lisa had seen no evidence thus far.

That's the pot calling the kettle black, she thought, suppressing a grimace. Did she really have any place to judge when she'd backed out of so many friendships herself, unwilling or unable to maintain the relationships in the face of her personal tragedies? There were more important aspects of Jackson's character to condemn.

"Well, it's good that you have a hearty appetite," Will said after she'd finished eating. "What's your pain level?"

The question was surreal in its familiarity and Lisa automatically answered. "About a four." Distant memories of a dislocated shoulder, of numerous visits to the doctor for a host of other minor – and major – ills frayed the edges of her emotions and she chewed at her bottom lip. Why did he have to be a doctor, a member of a profession she'd learned to trust over the years? Why did he have to be so normal? Jackson had been normal, too, at first glance. Normal, and even charming.

"All right, then, time for a painkiller."

He produced a tablet and Lisa choked it down. "At least your bedside manner is better," she groused as she leaned back against the headboard of the twin bed.

Will had been on his way out, but her words stopped him. "Better?"

"Better than Jackson's."

A smile split his craggy features and Will chortled. "Well, that always was a major complaint about Mr. Rippner. 'Thoroughly lacking in bedside manner.'"

And with that cryptic remark, he was gone, leaving Lisa to wonder about it until she drifted off to sleep.


End file.
